


some ghost of me that i dreamed up just to sing myself to sleep

by the_everqueen



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Us (Movie 2019)
Genre: Crossover, Drabble, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_everqueen/pseuds/the_everqueen
Summary: You can sense him, the other you, until you come Above.





	some ghost of me that i dreamed up just to sing myself to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> warning: this is very spoilery for the movie Us (2019), so if you haven't seen it and/or don't want the ending spoiled, perhaps go watch that first. (i recommend; peele is Brilliant)

You can sense him, the other you, until you come Above.

Then the static, the ever-present aura of him that pervades your whole being, goes silent as neatly as if someone flipped a switch. You pause. It is quiet in your head without him—or, no, it’s the opposite, it’s  _ loud _ , your thoughts churning to fill the void he has left. You never realized he took up so much space. Absent that white noise, you feel as though your mind might unravel from awareness: awareness of the  _ whoosh click shuffle hiss thrum moan _ that underlies this side of the world, the painful brightness gleaming on slick surfaces, the naked fear that has sustained you since birth. 

Above looms around you, vast and close. 

You do not know where you are. Only that he is here. How did you get here? You climbed, up up up, and slipped through a fault in the ground. That sounds familiar. Children stepping through a wardrobe into winter, a boy clambering a beanstalk ladder to the clouds. You shiver. Just stories. Fragments of him, drifting down into your mind. Except that thread has been snipped. You have to find him, if you want— 

— _ freedom, balance, answers _ — 

to get out.

You tiptoe down the dark corridor, bare feet silent on the cold floor. Voices murmur at a distance, and you keep close to the walls, ears hurting with the metallic beeping and sharp slap of steps echoing from elsewhere. You must not let them find you. That is one of the rules, and you’ve already broken so many coming Above. 

You are going to break at least one more.

They must not see you doing it.

Logic—not that sixth sense, gone mute and blank—tells you he is close. You peer into each of the rooms, wrinkling your nose at the harsh chemical scent that overlays the smells of sick and death. You find him in the room numbered 57, the curtain pulled back from his bed, so much bigger and cleaner than the thin mattress where the others laid you. He is asleep. His skin is gone yellowish under the machine-lights and harsh smell, but if anything that makes you more similar, gaunt limbs and outgrown hair, bodies tucked away from the sun. 

You hate him. You hate him for being like and unlike you, for being asleep in crisp white sheets and unafraid of what might come.

That hatred propels you to his side. You do not know what you are going to do until you’re already doing it: wrapping your fingers tight around his throat and  _ squeezing _ as hard as you can. He wakes up, of course—even those Above have the animal instinct to survive, at any cost—his hands scrabbling at yours, but you are stronger, not wasted with whatever sickness is inside him, and you squeeze tighter, desperate to shut him up before he can scream or someone else can hear, because the clip on his finger is attached to a wire which is attached to a machine that beeps and it beeps  _ fasterfasterfaster _ as his pulse flutters under your touch, but then you feel his body relax right before his eyes roll back in his head and he goes utterly limp, helpless.

The beeping slows, falls back into its steady sleep pattern.

That, the machine, will be a problem. You eye it, though the jumble of numbers and spiked lines mean nothing to you. Someone is going to hear it, someone might already be coming to check on the other one. Which means you need to be fast.

You yank the clip off his finger. The machine makes a shrill sound and then falls silent. You notice another wire coming out of his arm; you rip that out, too. Blood wells from the puncture in the crook of his elbow, leaving a reddish smear on the sheets as you pull him to the ground. His body makes a muffled thud when it hits the floor, and you freeze, sure that this moment is when someone will find you. 

No one comes.

Heaving one of his arms over your shoulder, you half-drag, half-carry him back the way you came. It’s a shorter distance when you know where you’re going, though your heart pounds relentless in the back of your throat, your skin crawling with expectation that one of Them is going to pop out at any moment. Then you’re through the cramped closet, wedging behind boxes to the pushed-aside floor panel, fumbling the other one’s dead (not dead, you didn’t kill him, you just made him  _ stop _ ) weight as you descend the concrete stairs and hurry across the grimy station and push through another forgotten door. 

You know these halls like the back of your hand. The Tethered don’t ask questions— _ who is the boy who looks like you, where did you go, what are you doing? _ —but you’re aware of that machine Above, and you’re running out of time, running, and your  _ time’s up _ . You shove him into one of the bunks, panting more from fear than exertion. 

He’s not going to stay there. He’s you, or—he’s not you, but you  _ know him _ , you know how he thinks, you know he’s going to try to find his way out, and you can’t, you  _ can’t _ let that happen, you’ve been up there, and even the loudness and brightness is better than being here in the dark. 

Spotting the handcuffs is as good as a sign. 

You fasten one end to his wrist, the other to the bedpost. He is sick; maybe he will die down here, among the Tethered, in the mildewed darkness. Maybe he won’t haunt you.

Maybe.

He coughs, and his eyes crack open. There is a blooming bruise on his forehead from where he hit the doorjamb of the closet. 

Maybe you will haunt him.

The thought makes you smile. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but his eyes flare wide in sudden terror. He jerks against the bed frame.

You run.

You don’t stop until you crawl back through the floor, pausing long enough to readjust the skewed panel and shove a heavy box over it. Then you race to the hospital room, feet slapping loud on the slick floor. A woman calls out but you keep running, skidding into Room 57 and leaping into the messy sheets. You dig up the wire attached to the now-silent machine and pin the clip onto your finger, just like he had it. You can’t do anything about the needle that was in his arm, but you think they might replace it later. 

Someone peers into the room a few minutes later, frowning. You blink slowly, as though you’ve just woken up. He hooks you properly to the machines and leaves with minimal comments.

You sleep. You do not dream.

(You have never dreamed.)

In the morning, a nurse tells you that she is sorry, but your mother—Rachel Hamilton, in the room next door—has passed. Your brother has been called. 

You say nothing. 

She wasn’t yours. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @the-everqueen. comments appreciated, or talk to me about thematic resonances.


End file.
